Cast iron, she is

almost rusty in her patina

not a single bit of shine

dull wings, crusty halo

a rescue from a burn site

scavenged to sit the mantle

like a kitty or rescue puppy

crouched on a dusty hearth

a candle holder by design

for a tiny votive to hide behind

her skirt, the ones they put in

green and red and blue glass

in the old cathedrals so prayers

keep rising to the heavens

even after you’ve left

I wish I had her history

but she’s a citizen of the world

and I love her just the same

drab and dark yet angel

and who’s to say what

they really look like.